The sweeper pivots, planting the broom-shaft between the guard and the direction the woman stood — buying seconds. Behind, there's a quickening scrape of shoes on stone, a small boy's breath catching, then silence where they were. The guard fills the space with leather tabard and two decades of professional irritation. He looks past the sweeper once, clocks the empty space, and lets out a long breath through his nose. "She's gone." He says it like a verdict. "I noticed." The sweeper does not move. The guard studies them for a long beat. The mushroom's hum pulses between them — felt in the sternum rather than heard, steady as a buried heartbeat. "Whatever the market woman told you," he says, quieter now, "isn't your business. The gap's off-limits. Castellan's orders, since first light." First light. Before the square even woke. Someone already knew it was coming.